Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  Rob pushed Cash behind him, pressed her up against the wall. He shot a hand in his pocket for the room key.

  The rest of the figure emerged from the window. He saw the tattoo of Jesus. It was the small Hispanic girl. She turned to face Rob and Cash. Her eyes were devil red, her stare blank. By a combination of hair and the remnants of a sexy nightie, she dragged the Caucasian girl behind her. Not being sure if the female victim was dead or unconscious, Rob shot a look at Paul.

  Should they act? Would that only serve to endanger Cash and T? He had that gun, but he wasn’t sure if he could kill anyone that wasn’t an immediate threat to him or his friends.

  Before Rob could weigh the options, the infected girl leaped over the bird shit railing, hauling her victim with her by one tiny yet Hulkian arm. The white girl’s back slammed against the rail before they both fell quickly onto the hood of a parked Hyundai below.

  It didn’t slow her down. She bolted across the lot like a sprinter, her prey’s skin tearing against the pavement as she dragged. When she reached the sidewalk of Las Vegas Boulevard, another runner appeared in the distance, and went right for her. It was a man in an iconic brown UPS uniform. Rob and his friends first thought the racer to be an intervening hero.

  Then the UPS man and the Hispanic girl fought for the right to tear her victim apart.

  They sat in their room, door locked, chain on, chair wedged under the doorknob; stolen police handgun under Rob’s side of the bed. He had made an attempt to call 911—even to just alert them to the dead bodies—but he got a recording and hung up. Decided he’d rather smoke Paul’s pot. They passed two fatties around in the dim light of the fuzzy, and muted, television. The four of them sat at the edges of the beds, facing each other. The TV news flashed images of crime scenes at Coronado High School, Hoover Dam, and the MGM Grand.

  “My version of a stiff drink,” Rob said to Cash. She had politely refused the marijuana and wasn’t thrilled with his smoking. He rarely smoked—to her knowledge, anyway—but she didn’t want him becoming addicted to anything, given his late father’s demons.

  “If there was a bottle of anything in here, I’d need it after that crap,” he said. “Don’t give me that look, Cash. Please.”

  “Is ordering that chicken out of the question?” asked Paul, “Shit should be calm by the time the delivery guy gets here.”

  “Are you serious?” asked Cash.

  “Well, wait—these bitches gonna be hungry soon,” he replied, thumbs pointing at both himself and Rob. Teresa had cordially rebuffed the cannabis as well.

  “Those two fighter jets,” said Rob. “What do you figure?”

  “Scary,” said Teresa, as she thumbed through the Twitter feed on her phone.

  “The scariest part,” inhaled Paul, “is that they are single-pilot cockpits.”

  “That thought is more dangerous than these freaking . . . whatever the hell they are.”

  Cash repositioned herself in the bed, picking her legs up and stretching out. “They’re us,” she sighed. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  That line floated in the air, with the pot smoke, for at least sixty seconds.

  “Shouldn’t they only fly two-pilot planes, in case one of them becomes . . . ?” asked Teresa.

  “Probably not less than three pilots,” said Rob, “and give everyone stun guns or something. Same thing with police cars . . . ”

  “Trains too,” said Teresa.

  “Operating rooms?” asked Cash.

  “Classrooms,” offered Rob.

  “We are so completely fucked,” whispered Paul, then he looked at Cash. “To think, you were afraid to fly when the biggest threat was wind shear.”

  “At least I feel safer in here with that door locked,” said Cash.

  “I dunno.” Paul inhaled. “We have to be real, dude. We are no safer in here.”

  They all just studied each other, knowing that any one of them could become a raging killer within seconds.

  “Give me that shit,” Cash said, taking a joint from her boyfriend’s fingers. Though she thought she could almost see the germs crawling over it, she rushed it to her lips and sucked.

  “That chair under the door will keep us safe,” chided Teresa. “Being all together will keep us safe. Smoking pot will keep us safe,” she said, not hiding her sarcasm.

  On the muted television broadcast, someone, identified as a school nurse, broke down as she addressed her interviewer. Paul’s motorcycle helmet sat on the dresser beside the TV, its visor projecting a mirrored, distorted image of the entire scene.

  Rob watched his girl eyeing the television as she inhaled her marijuana.

  “You want me to turn up the sound, babe?”

  “No,” she replied. “I’m too scared to hear any more right now.”

  He grabbed the remote and attempted to flip to the next channel. Nothing happened. He tried a couple of more times as he pondered about cheap motels and rarely-changed batteries. Finally, he squeezed so hard that the tip of his thumb turned red, and the TV flickered to a different channel. This time, the scene was of a commuter train, somewhere in a snowy landscape. It was derailed and on its side amid billowing smoke and flickering emergency vehicles. Next came a shot of two photos, side-by-side. Beneath them were the words Motorman K. Ledger. The image on the left was of his official employment snapshot—it depicted a rugged sort, middle-aged, with a scruffy black beard, peppered gray. A beaming smile partially concealed below the brush. The second photo contained no such grin. Appeared to be a blurry phone shot. There was Mr. Ledger on the snow, a gash across his forehead. Eyes red. Scruffy beard now peppered with blood and caked vomit. An oxygen tank sat in the wet snow beside him.

  Teresa, not watching television, handed her phone to Paul and nodded her head as if to say look. He stared at it and gave it back without expression.

  “What is it?” asked Cash.

  “Just Twitter,” answered Teresa. “Can’t believe that stuff.”

  “No, show it to me, T. This weed is already making me paranoid. I need to see it.”

  Teresa tossed the phone across to Cash’s bedside. The first tweet she saw was:

  Some ppl r flipping 2 #cannibal mode n stay that way 4 good

  “Oh, balls.”

  Cash scanned the list of nation-wide trending topics:

  cannibals

  #zombies

  walkers

  #apocalypse

  biters

  bieber

  #flippers

  It was an hour later when Paul ended his phone conversation. All but Teresa had continued smoking the cannabis. They had also gone through a myriad of television channels, each one an unsettling harbinger, until they finally found a broadcast that offered an alternative to doom: a Nickelodeon rerun of Kenan & Kel. The four of them managed to laugh at a show that had brought them innocent joy as children. Seemed like such a different world, yet it wasn’t that long ago. Now, all but Teresa also wanted that damned chicken.

  As Paul lowered the phone, he looked at Rob. “They no longer deliver. Apparently, no one does. Not even from those third-party apps. If we want it, we have to go get it.”

  They all looked at each other.

  “There’s the question,” said Rob, through a hazy, stoned grin. “Who goes for the chicken?”

  Nervous laughter.

  “I’ll go,” offered Paul, as he stood.

  “Not alone, you won’t,” said Teresa.

  “I’ll be fine. I always travel alone,” he pulled his in-ear headphones from his pocket and quickly flashed them before stuffing them back in. “As long as I have my phones in.”

  “I’m the only one with a clear head right now,” she responded. “I’ll go with you. Can you drive your bike in that condition?”

  “Sure. But I’m not putting you on the back with me in this condition,” he smiled.

  “Do you trust me driving your car, Rob?” asked T. “I can go with Paul.”

  Rob thought for a moment.

/>   “Honestly,” he replied, “the safest way would be for all of us to go together.”

  Cash was stretched out on the bed, enjoying the television.

  “I’m shot, people,” she sighed. “I really don’t feel like going anywhere. Screw the chicken. I’m hungry, but not enough to move.”

  “The next best option would be to have three of us go, and lock the remaining person in the room alone,” said Paul.

  “Remaining person says that’s fine,” answered Cash.

  “Welcome to the new world. Need to employ military strategies in order to get a chicken leg,” said Teresa. “How ‘bout you big, strong manly types take Rob’s car and I’ll stay here and babysit my stoned best friend?”

  “I don’t know . . . ” began Rob.

  “You cool with that, Carrie?” asked T.

  “Sure. Just be careful, you guys. That was some creepy shit that happened out there.”

  “But it didn’t start out there, it began in the room,” answered Rob.

  “She’ll be fine, Rob. There will only be two possible cannibals in this room when you leave. Outside, there are millions. You boys need to look after each other out there. We’re relatively safe in here, right Carrie?”

  “Fo’ sho. Oh, and Paul, were those actually Hello Kitty headphones, or am I totally wasted?”

  “Yes,” he answered, sheepishly. “But they’re just temps. My real ones shit the bed and I . . . ”

  Cash put her hand up with a grin.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  Rob pulled the chair out from under the door handle. Paul stood behind him, and the girls were on the beds watching Kenan and Kel chase a large rat around their store for an entire episode. A gush of wind blew in as the door was opened to the dark balcony. Rob poked his head out and looked both ways. All quiet. Nobody around. As he and Paul stepped into the night, Teresa came behind to lock the door behind them.

  “Do you want to take that gun with you?” she whispered.

  “No,” answered Rob. “I’d rather you guys have it. Cash knows it’s under our bed. Anyone tries to get in, you use it.”

  Teresa nodded as Cash yelled, “See if they have some orange soda.”

  The door closed. Rob waited to hear it lock, then he and Paul walked softly along the balcony, avoiding the bird shit railing, the pool of blood, the shattered glass, and the body of the dickless Casanova from room 29. Seemed in this new world, a corpse on a motel balcony drew neither a crowd, nor the police. No people anywhere to be seen. Only occasional traffic sounds could be heard as Rob and Paul made their way down the steps, and toward his Chevy. Neither of them uttered a word. Rob took one last glance up at their room as they got in the car. All quiet.

  Inside the room, Cash allowed her dazed mind to wander from the television.

  “T, if the world is about to end, maybe I should get married, right?”

  Teresa laughed, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Nobody said it was the apocalypse.”

  “Well, there was everybody on Twitter”, answered Cash, speaking slowly.

  “Then it must be true!”

  They both giggled.

  “You should get married if you love Rob and you’re sure he’s the one.”

  Cash played with the remote as she thought. Kenan chased a rat on the TV screen.

  “Can’t argue with that . . . ”

  “I can be sure of a couple of things,” said Teresa. “He loves you to death. He’ll never mistreat you or cheat on you. He’ll sure as shit never leave you. He is a bit overbearing at times, but he thinks he’s protecting you, and he would never, ever hurt you, Carrie.”

  Cash ran her fingers along the remote as Teresa went on. “Now, how you feel is a different matter. I once heard my mom say something to my cousin Joy-Joy, R.I.P. Mom said, ‘If you hear a love song, and it always brings the same person to mind, that’s the person you love’. Sounds pretty simple, right?”

  “It does.”

  “I can’t tell you if he’s the one, Carrie, but there’s a whole world full of shitty dudes you can sift through to replace him. Think hard before you let Rob get away.”

  The remote slid through Cash’s fingers and fell off the bed. It landed on the worn carpet, beside the pistol that rested beneath her thin mattress. Kenan and Kel were now trying to save the rat before an exterminator could kill it. As Cash retrieved the controller, Teresa had one final comment. “I think the only thing that comes near you on Rob’s affection scale is that old car of his.”

  Paul Bhong was now in love with the Chevy.

  “This ride is killer, buddy,” he said, as he studied the Malibu’s interior.

  “Thanks,” said Rob, as he drove down Las Vegas Boulevard. The streets were quiet and almost empty. He thought there’d be more traffic, maybe even some accident scenes or police activity. He wasn’t sure if the dark emptiness was reassuring or distressing. He also wasn’t thrilled with Paul being plopped down in Cash’s seat. He glanced over at the lock button on the passenger side door.

  Stopped at a red light, Paul found a case of 8-tracks that had partially slid from under the seat.

  “Whoa. These are really sweet. Can I look?”

  “Yeah, just use some care. They were my father’s.”

  “Def bro, these look almost new! How do you keep ‘em this way?”

  “It’s just about caring for things that are important to you.”

  Rob took another look at the door lock.

  “You must have that old jam, ‘Born to Be Wild’. Did you see when Adam Lambert did that one on American Idol?”

  “No. It’s a Steppenwolf song.”

  “I mean, I know it’s not an Adam Lambert song, but that was like the first time I heard of it.”

  “What? It’s in like one out of every four movies; every time someone gets on a bike or in a fucking car.”

  “Great biker song, bro.”

  “Try this one. Grab that Doors tape. No, the other Doors tape.”

  As Rob hit the gas, he loaded the cartridge in. Some words floated from the speakers,

  A cold girl’ll kill you in a darkened room . . .

  “That’s not the one. Wait.”

  He tapped a button twice to reach program four.

  “Here it is; “Riders on the Storm”. It might be more about hitchhikers, or killers, than bikers, but it’s really about all of us, I think. Try it on your ride someday.”

  Girl, you gotta love your man . . .

  “Last thing that Jim Morrison recorded before he died.”

  “Man,” said Paul, “I mean, I’ve seen his picture on shirts and all, but I . . . ”

  Bhong seemed a bit embarrassed at his lack of knowledge in that area. Rob sensed it.

  “Listen Paul, you know a whole lot about a wide variety of things. That’s obvious. My knowledge is pretty much streamlined toward cars and classic rock. I’ll hit you with some Emerson, Lake & Palmer if you teach me about everything else in this world.”

  Paul grinned, “What lake? Never mind. Sounds like a sweet plan. In the meantime, I’m about to school you on some bad ass poultry, my brother. Turn here.”

  The glorious aroma of fried chicken enveloped them as they entered the brightly lit eatery. The door had basically been slammed in their faces by the group who had gone in before them. Seemed too much of a chore to hold the door for the people behind them. A handful of uniformed employees scurried behind the counter, and there were at least a dozen customers eating at the tables. The television above the counter was off. For the time being, the world appeared almost normal to Rob. All seemed serene, folks were dining, some even laughing. There were the rude, non-door-holding bastards, and the only evidence of death was being loaded into brightly-colored buckets to be served with curly fries.

  Some barely-audible instrumental versions of recent soothing hits filtered down from the ceiling speakers as the guys perused the take-out menus.

  Music to calm the potential savage beasts, thought Rob.

&nb
sp; “The main thing here is the sauce,” said Paul. “If you get chicken strips, you can dip those fuckers all night long. The sauce, cousin, the sauce.”

  “Sounds good,” said Rob, as he squinted to read the lighted menu sign behind the counter.

  “Welcome guests! How may I help you?” smiled the girl at the register.

  Rob admired her dedication to her job, as she almost surely either knew someone who’d been affected by the cannibalistic outbreak, or at the very least, she must’ve been worried that either the customer at her counter, or the fry cook to her rear, would suddenly want nothing more than to devour her. Yet, there she was, beaming—probably for minimum wage, too.

  “Hi,” said Rob, with a polite smile. “Would you happen to have orange soda?”

  VIRGINIA

  Dr. R. Anderson opened another Diet Mountain Dew. He sat beside his sister at a long conference table. His head was bandaged all the way around, a blood stain on the back of the gauze. Dr. V was now in a hospital gown with heavy packing over her bitten shoulder. A handful of other medical professionals were also scattered around the table, all watching a large monitor mounted on the long wall. A helmeted guard stood in each of the four corners of the room. The woman on the big screen was seated in the White House Office of Science and Technology. She preferred to be addressed by her full, hyphenated surname.

  “Dr. Papperello-Venito, we’ve suffered a tragedy here today,” said Dr. R. “We lost one brave security officer, and have had several employees injured . . . ”

  “So terrible, Dr. Anderson,” she replied. “I can see that you and the other Dr. Anderson have both been through a great deal.”

  “Not just us. We have several folks still in medical, worse off than we are. We are going to need more security here, as there are currently not enough . . . ”

  “We are very thin on security, Dr. Anderson,” she replied. “We are doing what we can, but both manpower and equipment are dangerously low since the attack. I’m sure you understand.”

  Rubbing her injured shoulder, V spoke up. “Excuse me, Dr. Papperelnito . . . ”

  “It’s Papperello-Venito,” replied the White House official.

  “Yes,” answered V. “It’s a bit of a mouthful, to be honest. May I call you ‘Dr. P’?”